A Ghost Story
by Lucky Lynx
Summary: After the Battle of Hogwarts, after tending to the wounded and burying the dead, how does one move on? Harry has been named the Man of our Time, no longer the Boy Who Lived but the one who saved Wizarding Kind from certain destruction. What of him now though? Forced to remain at Hogwarts, far more a prisoner than a hero, what will Harry find lurking in the shadows of the school?
1. The Man of our Time

It was a bleak and stormy night, tendrils of lightning streaking across the darkest sky Harry had seen in ages. Thunder rumbled down through the Forbidden Forest, and against the stark flashes in the sky, he could see flocks of creatures scattering up from the thick wall of trees. After one particularly nasty roar, Harry could have sworn he saw the silhouette of a flying car just above the horizon. Funny how that thought a year ago would have made him smile with a reminiscent fondness, but now…

Harry stood in silence and watched the storm rage outside. With a sigh, he tilted his head and placed his cheek to rest upon the glass. The cold was a welcomed touch against his face; the contrast between his warm skin and the icy window a wakeup call to his otherwise numb state. From his vantage point in the Astronomy Tower's spiral stairwell, Harry could see a vast portion of the grounds, including the newly built Magical Creatures paddock. Just to the North laid the ruins of what was once the great Quidditch pitch, all but lost in the final battle months before. For a rare moment, Harry allowed himself to remember flying above the pitch, chasing and darting across clear blue skies. His mind wandered through poignant moments: Dumbledore saving him from a nasty fall, Luna and her Gryffindor mascot attire, Snape and… just as quickly as the memory had started, it ended abruptly in a wash of black, transforming into a new train of thought as if the last had never existed. Harry thought of the withered Whomping Willow and redesigned Herbology green houses. The dock where once a boat house stood and the marble memorial of those now passed.

And that's how the grounds of Hogwarts looked those days: crumbling images of the past saddled up next to new buildings for the future, and yet even with all the new, the growth, the rebirth, Harry could still only see the scorched earth, the destruction and loss that sparked such a renaissance. The irony of the present made his mouth twist in a grimacing grin. Wouldn't they all be shocked to see him standing there in the middle of the night; the Ministry's Golden Boy, the hope of a brighter future, commiserating with the dead, unable to move away from his dark past.

'Well,' Harry thought, 'they wouldn't see me anyway, so no one will ever know that the Wizarding World's Ambassador of Goodwill is a jaded, shell of a man; a low-down rotter who wants nothing to do with good will and feels absolutely no form of hope or joy.' Harry pulled the Invisibility Cloak tighter around his shoulders, trying to warm himself and knowing the effort to be futile. By the looks of the moon, and the cold ache in his bones, Harry could tell it was around 3:00am. He knew from experience that a Professor would be making his or her way to the tower at roughly 3:15am and, also from experience, he knew to be gone when that happened. It was much too awkward to get caught. The probing glances, the whispered accusations and false concerns were far too much for Harry to handle the next morning after being found on one of his nightly excursions.

Best to continue his lamenting elsewhere.

With a final look towards the still violent sky, he turned to go.

Through the misty view of the cloak, just at the corner of his eye, Harry caught sight of a parchment tucked inside a chasm in the wall. Upon closer inspection, he could see it was a newspaper, not a parchment, and was stashed along with several Chocolate Frogs and one empty potions vial. Probably some boy hiding out, waiting for the girl de jour to arrive for their clandestine meeting, much like Ron used to do when he and Lavender were going about. Some things never change, no matter how much some people would like them too.

"Accio newspaper," Harry whispered with a rasp in the dark.

The moment his hand touched the yellowing pages a monotone voice began to read aloud: 

_**Harry: The Very Essence of Hope**_

_We at the Daily Prophet were astounded at our own good luck and fortune when we were approached by one Ginerva Weasley, who wished to offer an exclusive look into the life, and the man, who is Harry James Potter. She told us of the brave Boy Who Lived over a refreshing glass (or two) of Butterbeer at the Three Broomsticks._

_Ginerva described Harry in plain terms, always referring to him as 'a modest and simple boy who has grown into a modest and simple man'. She recalled the thrilling and dangerous Battle of Hogwarts (see page 9 for more details) as well as the on-going restoration of the castle, grounds and the school itself. Ginerva informed us that Harry 'is very aware of the importance of rebuilding and does all that he can to move forward into a brighter future and encourages other to do the same'. We are so moved by how Harry has grown and what kind of wizard he has become under our watchful eye. And when Ginerva shyly mentioned she was, in fact, going steady with our Boy Who Lived, we were nothing but thrilled._

_"He is a kind soul and someone I could see in my personal future for a long time to come," Ginerva said with a blush and a smile. There is nothing better than to know our hero is a happily taken man, with such a fine witch by his side._

_Near the end of our long conversation, Ginerva mentioned how far Harry has gone to ensure the safety of our world and community: "He is the very essence of hope." Ginerva, we could not have said it better ourselves. Harry James Potter, you are the essence of hope and we at the Prophet will continue to support you in your future endeavors. At the current moment, Harry is enjoying his deployment by the Ministry of Magic as the Ambassador of Goodwill to the Wizarding World. In short, Harry's new task is to lead us into a safe, secure future, and with his permanent station at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, we may all rest assured that our children are in far capable hands. When Harry does travel away from Hogwarts, he may be found at the headquarters of the Ministry itself (see page 12 for an exclusive interview with Minister for Magic, Kingsley Shaklebolt). It has also been rumored that Harry James Potter was invited to meet with the Prime Minister of Great Britain, but we at the Prophet will, for now, set that aside and keep our rumor-free publication just that._

_For now, we will content ourselves with providing you, the gentle reader, with a look into the Man of Our Time, Harry Potter (all new, exclusive photographs on page 5 and 6). Also in this issue, interviews with more of Harry's inner circle (see page 8 for Professor of Herbology, Neville Longbottom's, detailed account of Harry- The Younger Years)._

"Utter rubbish," Harry muttered aloud as he tossed the brittle paper to the ground. What had possessed his "friends" to betray him like that? Didn't they realize by now that he would rather die than read about himself in the newspaper? He never wanted to be famous, he just wanted to be normal, and none of them had ever understood that. One would think that the Boy Who Lived, the Man of Our Time, would be surrounded by such fine, upstanding, caring friends… well one would be utterly mistaken. And Ginny, for Merlin's sake, his own girlfriend couldn't keep her trap shut! She just had to blab about how simple he was and how much everyone depends on him for a brighter future. And that bit about her future?! That scared Harry more than anything else in the article.

Harry closed his eyes and gathered himself, reigning in his frazzled nerves and spiraling anger. None of them had meant him any harm by it all. They all just did what they thought was right at the time. Harry had spoken to each of them, Ginny included, and they were all profusely apologetic. Even still, it didn't make Harry feel much better. And the misty look in Ginny's eye when she asked how he felt about their relationship going public made him feel considerably worse. How was he supposed to tell her he wasn't ready? How do you look at your girlfriend, your best mate's sister, and tell her your feet are ice cold and you just can't go through with it anymore? Hell, how was he supposed to explain it to her, when he didn't understand it himself?

Worse yet, no one knew. Not Ron, not Hermoine, nor Neville or Headmistress McGonagol. Harry hadn't told anyone what he was going through, because frankly, it wasn't any of their business. This time, for once, Harry was determined to sort things out on his own. A plan with good intentions, though which lately amounted to wandering the castle at all hours of the night with nothing but his thoughts for company.

As he stared at the article, his own picture waving back at him (who spells those pictures to make everyone look so bloody happy anyway?) his wretched aversion blossomed into full out disgust. Disgust with the Ministry, disgust with his friends, with Hogwarts and above all, disgust with himself.

"Incendio," his voice was barely a whisper, but the paper instantly ignited nonetheless. Those days, most spells didn't even require words. If he could think it, it could happen. With a brush of robes and the shift of his cloak, Harry fled into the inky dark of the abandoned hall ahead, leaving brilliant red flames to burn away in his absence. The thought of the grey, lifeless ashes it would leave behind made Harry smile, albeit slightly.

Serves them right, all of them.


	2. A Sign of Things to Come

Chapter 2: A Sign of Things to Come

Sausage. It was always the smell of sausage just after sunrise that made Harry's stomach turn.

As of late, it seemed every morning was accompanied with sausage and that sickening, fickle flop of his stomach had almost become routine. Wake up, trudge down to the Great Hall, plop into a staff chair, pass the sausage, and try not to vomit.

In an attempt to avoid the ordeal all together, Harry turned his head to the left, only to be confronted by a steaming platter of ham and bacon. The thought of more salty, breakfast meat only made matters worse. Harry was starting to see the appeal of becoming vegetarian. That was until he spied the tomato and egg casserole just beyond the bacon platter; the aroma was enough to turn him green. So, not just the sausage then. Odd it seemed though, since Harry had always been one with a stellar appetite. While at school, he was among the first to enjoy all the dishes the house elves conjured be they meat, starch, vegetable or anything else. With one last glance at the smoked ham, Harry sighed and focused his attention to the croissant on his own plate. Bread. At least that hadn't changed.

Time passed at a slow march as Harry picked purposefully at his plate. Just try to look busy. If that could be accomplished, then none of them would talk and none would be the wiser. Dutifully, he reached for his water goblet, again with purpose, as one who wanted to participate in the breakfast meal would. Occasionally, he would lift his head and glance around the room. Taking in the students, their laughter, their joy, Harry would give a knowing smile and then lower his head once more. Pick at the plate, drink from the goblet, lift and smile, lower it once more. Pick, drink, lift and smile, lower. Over and again he would perform the same routine, like a well-trained pony. Pick, drink, lift and smile, lower; the perfect impression of a normal, happy person. What a load of bollocks.

"All right, Harry?" The voice startled him. Uneasily, Harry broke his repetition and turned to face the voice, only to find a set of worried brown eyes beneath shaggy red hair staring back at him. He must have seemed quizzical, because the talking happened again, "You spilled your goblet."

"Ah, well, Bill… I didn't sleep well last night," Harry mumbled. Bill Weasley gave a reluctant nod and turned back to his conversation with Professor Slughorn regarding hinkypunks and Invisible Draught. Damn that Bill Weasley and his keen eye. Glancing down at his hand, Harry noticed a shaking tremor run through it. Clenching his fist seemed to cure the tremble for the moment, but he knew it was only a matter of time before it would return. The tremors were the first side-effect of the extended use of Pepper-Up potions.

Harry had been brewing them for weeks now and every morning, he would consume enough to rattle a hippogriff. It seemed to be the only way he could keep any amount of focus through the day. And yes, the potions worked, but only while the body was in control. After time, the potion would increase in potency as the body's ability to process the brew decreased. Hand trembling was the first sign that Harry's tolerance level was diminishing. Soon the jitters would spread to his feet and legs. A few days after that, his pulse would accelerate and he would sweat even in the coldest of dungeons. And if he continued to consume the Pepper-Up potion, he would find that sleep would come rarely, if ever. Sleeping draughts could be used to combat the side-effects, but the cycle was vicious and never-ending. Wizards had gone mad from the abuse of such a simple potion.

Thinking back to his lessons in Potions, Harry tried to recall other brews meant to heighten mental acuity, but all that came was inky black and foggy images. He would try researching the books in the library, but deep down, Harry knew it to be useless. Only rudimentary potions were kept on public record for the students. If he wanted something with more power, he knew where to look.

Guess it was once again time to visit the pensive.

Pushing back from the table, Harry rose quickly to leave.

"Oh, Harry," Bill called, his hand coming to rest on the crook of Harry's arm. "Oy, you feel a tad parky. All right there, Harry?"

"Yes, just a bit of a draft in my room, s'all."

"Precisely why you should move into the staff quarters on the upper levels. No need, really, to stay in those dreary dungeon rooms." Harry opened his mouth to protest, but Bill stopped him before he could get the words out. "Yes, I know, you prefer the quiet. I suppose I understand, what with you not being a Professor and all. Quiet is good for those who can achieve it," he said with a rueful laughter.

"Is there something you needed?" Harry asked, looking poignantly at the hand clenching his now throbbing arm.

"Oh right," Bill said as he released his hold, "I wanted to invite you to my classroom today. We are taking on a bogart, and since you have become something of a legend in the bogart department, I thought it might be grand if you attended."

Tried as he might, Harry felt the fake smile slip ever so slightly from his face. Since the beginning of term, Harry had attended exactly none of the classes in session and had hoped to keep up his stellar attendance record. Going back to the Defense Against Dark Arts classroom was like stepping back in time, except there was no way to go back, so why bother even trying? And a bogart no less. Surely a dementor wouldn't appear this time, nor Voldemort. The thing he feared the most… it wasn't the thought of that which brought an icy chill to his spine. It was the fact that he, Harry Potter, couldn't think of a single thing that scared him anymore.

"Well, Harry, will you do it?"

"Sure," he muttered. With a nod of his head, Harry ducked out from beneath that dodgy Bill Weasley's penetrating gaze and made a bee line for the back entrance.

Walking swiftly, Harry stayed to the shadows so as not to be noticed. The jaunt from the Great Hall to his private quarters in the lower dungeon was one fraught with the possibilities of confrontation. Students darted in and out of classrooms, the female ones usually stopping to wave or smile in his direction. Professors flitted about with their cheery smiles and small talk just waiting upon their lips for one such as Harry with nowhere else seemingly to go. Being a guest at Hogwarts was like being in pleasantries hell. One could be detained for an entire afternoon pleasantly chatting with those who happened to pass by, just because that one was neither a professor nor student and therefore automatically available for such rubbish.

Harry did his best to be unavailable most of the time. If he could convince everyone he was all right for longer than a day, he would take his meals in the dungeon as well. The last time he'd tried that though, Ginny came all the way from her Yorkshire vacation to check on him. Much to her disappointment, the Man of Our Time couldn't have been bothered to see her. Actually, it had been over a month since the two had spoken in person and Harry knew that even though it didn't bother him a bit, Ginny was going nutters over the whole predicament.

Ginny. His mind reeled with a mess of conflicting emotions at just the thought of her. In times past, Harry had developed feelings for the little ginger-headed girl, so much so that he at one point thought she was the one. But over the course of the last year, the two had grown apart, not just physically but emotionally. For Ginny though, Harry's arrival at Hogwarts meant the two could repair what damage had been done. But for Harry… the damage was much too far gone. In his heart he knew; it was time to end things. Ah, the pain and guilt, right on schedule. Harry couldn't stand the thought of hurting Ginny. Even if he didn't love her, he still cared a great deal for her and to cause that much pain was unthinkable. It was there that Harry always ended his thoughts of Ginny: stuck somewhere between breaking it off and committing like hell to faking it.

With a stale gust of air, the hidden entrance to the lower dungeon pushed open. As Harry sank into the darkness, all thoughts of sausage, Bill, Hogwarts and Ginny receded to the back of his mind. The stale air was a blessing, the crushing black a welcomed alternative to the pure sunlight of the halls above. It took only minutes to walk the rest of the way to his personal chamber.

"Lumos," he mumbled, holding the now illuminated wand before him. Truth be told, he didn't need the light after having traveled the narrow, dank corridors of the dungeon hundreds of times over. He supposed the spell was habit by now. Just another part of him that didn't make much sense. Noticing a familiar chink in the rough stone wall, Harry stopped and turned to face it.

"Specialis Revelio." From the tip of Harry's wand a murky, yellow light oozed forth, covering what anyone else would think was just another section of the tunnel. The yellow light turned a brilliant white as it took the shape of a thick, wooden door. With a wave of his wand, the spell receded, the light oozing away into the inky dark of the corridor. Before him now stood a solid door that marked the entrance to his quarters. Scarpin's Revelaspell was particularly useful in undoing the Disillusionment Charm that Harry wove into place each time he left his chambers. Both spells proved particularly easy for Harry to master and hence forth became a normal part of his daily routine. The room opened up before him, lamplight illuminating as he entered.

Much like the dungeon itself, his quarters looked as though they were dug out of the side of a mountain. The walls were ragged stone that rounded up and into a similar ceiling. Shivering, Harry quickly spelled a thick, downy blanket from the back of the sofa to wrap itself around his shoulders. Staving off the cold was the only downside to living in this part of the castle. That and the lack of a view outside. Out of the corner of his eye, Harry caught sight of a massive tentacle wiggling by the glass of his large, picture window. Obviously the glass was spelled to withstand the pressure of thousands of pounds of water from the Black Lake, but even still, when the giant squid swam past Harry caught himself cringing every time. It would be his luck the spell would falter and all that murky water would crush him to bits. He shivered once more, only this time it was the thought of sticky tentacles rather than the cold that Harry had a difficult time shaking off.

"Right, what to do about those tremors," Harry spoke aloud, checking his hand once more.

The trembling had ceased, for now, but he knew it was only a matter of time before it returned. The second bout would be worse than what occurred at breakfast and the third after that worse than the second and so on and so forth. It was definitely time to find a new band aid for the yawning hole of emptiness threatening just on the edge of his mind. Without it, Harry knew he could very well just wander off, lost in his own thoughts to never be seen again. 'Would it be so bad,' he thought, 'if it all just ended. I could disappear down here so easily; it would be as if I never existed. Everyone would think I'd just gone bugger all and fled.'

As if in response, a large cabinet in the back of the room awoke, the doors sliding open and the shelf within creeping forward until a pedestal unveiled itself.

"All right, all right, I'll gen up a bit on advanced potions before deciding to go off the trolley."

From the depths of the pedestal, a large round dish rose and floated gently just above the surface. The pensieve, the very same one that Harry had first fallen into in Dumbledore's office all those years ago, greeted him much like an old friend would. Eerie waves undulated across the surface of the mysterious liquid that flowed of its own accord into the bowl. Above, two cabinets opened to reveal shelves lined with glass vials and jars, each one labeled accordingly. Some said things like 'Tom- first encounter' or 'Slughorn- late night oration' and those were in a neat, elegant script indicative of the man who used to take his time recording every memory possible. There were at least a hundred of those vials, maybe more. Then there were the remaining bottles whose labels were scribbled in a hasty hand with descriptions such as 'Quidditch first year, game one' or 'DADA- werewolves'. Those were the recent additions of Harry's, each memory carefully extracted and stored, leaving behind vague black holes in his mind's eye. Most of them, Harry didn't miss on a day to day basis, but there were a few, all the way in the back, that Harry found his mind tried to revisit more often than not. 'Severus Snape- Sectumsempra' sat next to 'Severus Snape- Sleeping Draught and Living Death' and so on the row went, unlike the rest, in an orderly alphabetical nature.

"There you are," Harry murmured, gently reaching for a vial written in red ink, the handwriting unlike the Harry's or Dumbledore's. The label simply read 'Potion Study, volume 1'. From the moment McGonagall had given the pensieve, the cabinet and all of the contents inside to Harry (as instructed in the latter part of Dumbledore's will), he knew that the vials labeled volumes one through seven were from the late Potion's Master himself. The handwriting was strong; the curls of each letter deliberate and decisive, much like the man himself. The vials therefore came to rest next to all those memories of Harry's that pertained to Severus Snape. Having lived and relived each memory in the cabinet since his return to Hogwarts, Harry knew exactly which volume pertained to what type of potions. Volume one, for instance, contained memories of vitality, health and wellness potions while the remaining volumes spoke of all other types from love potions to poisons.

With a practiced hand that came from countless hours spent peering over the edge of the pensieve, Harry poured the memory and leaned forward, allowing the magic to swallow him whole. The sensation of falling, surrounded by the tendrils of powerful magic, was a thrill unlike any other. No matter how many times he entered the pensieve, Harry's body still surged with pleasure and excitement whenever the magic took hold.

"A pinch of crushed fairy wing added when the brew starts to bubble."

The voice came out of the murky dark as the memory took shape. Severus Snape stood straight, shoulders bent slightly forward as he gazed into a large, bronze cauldron. Harry shuttered at the sound of his voice, the reaction the same each time Harry listened to the man speak inside the memories. At first, it had frightened him, made him think he had completely gone mental, but as time wore on and Harry visited more and more memories of Snape, he came to enjoy the skitter of goose bumps across his skin. Harry watched as Snape moved about the room, collecting ingredients and reading aloud from an open book. Each motion caused his robes to billow behind him, framing his thin body in a black, fluid cloud. A low heat collected in the pit of Harry's stomach as he continued to play the voyeur. It was wrong; he knew it, on so many levels. Yet after months of stealing away and hiding in the dark, the idea of how wrong it was only added to the stirring, molten emotions bubbling away just below the surface.

This was it. This was the secret he refused to share with anyone. Not Ron, nor Hermione or Bill or McGonagall and especially not Ginny. The great Harry Potter reduced to nothing more than a school boy getting his thrills by spying on a dead man. None of it made sense, really, so Harry knew it surely wouldn't make sense to anyone else in his life. For all intents and purposes, he had always been attracted to girls, so why now in the dawn of his adult life did he find those feelings transferred to a man? And THIS man at that! The confusion of it all kept him up at night, kept him roaming the castle trying to sort it all out. To no avail, though, because every day Harry found himself right back here, inside a mirage of dreams and long-forgotten memories. He was the keeper of the dead. Snape cleared his throat as he dabbed his brow with a soft, green cloth. Harry silenced the running thoughts in his head, focusing like mad on what was to happen next.

With gentle hands, Snape reached up and threaded his fingers through his mass of black hair. In a swift motion, he gathered the strands and tied them up in a leather bind, exposing a delicate and porcelain patch of skin at the base of his neck. Elation washed over Harry like a drug, begging him to fall deeper into the memory and as the scene moved on around him, Harry realized he would enter the pensieve countless more times that afternoon, just to experience the rush. Truly those memories were a drug and Harry knew himself to be nothing if not a hopeless junky.


	3. What Dreams May Come

Chapter 3: What Dreams May Come

The familiar swirling vortex came all too quickly, as did the steel grip of magic that pulled him piece by piece away from the silver-lined memory, depositing his body outside the Pensieve in the exact place he began in. Glancing up at the enchanted ceiling, Harry noted the streaks of red, pink and gold indicating a setting sun. He could hardly believe it was that late, but the ceiling never lied and just like its companion spell in the Great Hall, it could only be changed or altered by the spell's creator. There was no use in dwelling on the day lost, and instead Harry quickly took use of a nearby scroll and quill to record his findings from the hours spent inside Snape's memories.

Calming Quick-Wit draught. It was one of many unknown fusions Snape created during his time at Hogwarts. From the countless memories left behind, Harry learned that Snape was not the kind to waste time and if two potions could be combined in order to save time in both brewing and actual time of ingestion, then he never hesitated from reworking the antiquated formulas. The Calming Quick-Wit draught did just that. It took half the time to brew than the original Calming draught and Quick-Wit potion and utilized more sophisticated ingredients that had less side-effect on the witch or wizard ingesting the concoction.

"Albino armadillo bile, lascivious lavender, gingko root, powdered unicorn horn and bog-frog blood," Harry read aloud from his hasty list. Recalling to mind the steps it would take to prepare and brew the potion, he quickly added abbreviated instructions to the bottom of the parchment. It was actually a simple creation and would take just one hour until it was ready to bottle. After that, he would have to store it in a cool, dry, dark location so as not to spoil the brew. Lucky his room was in the dungeon. Storage conditions for potions couldn't be more perfect.

The only side-effects Snape recorded were increased appetite and abnormal dream patterns. Harry ran his hands down his torso, the ridges of his ribs more apparent than the day before. Well, more of an appetite wouldn't kill him. And the abnormal dreams were old hat after so many years sharing a sleeping mind with Voldemort. It had been many months since Harry even registered any sort of activity when sleeping, so the dreams might be a welcomed change.

Snape also noted the effects of the brew would last for days, so Harry wouldn't have to ingest near as much as with the Pepper-Up potions. All in all, the solution was worth the hours spent lingering inside the Pensieve.

Honestly the hours spent meant nothing. He would have been satisfied regardless of finding an appropriate solution and he knew it full well. Watching Snape in his natural element, listening to that voice mumbled about ingredients and fire intensity, Harry felt a calm that no potion could emulate. 'I knew it would be this way, just as it has been every time before,' he told himself. It was a high unlike any other and Harry would ride it for days.

"It makes no sense, Potter. That man meant nothing to you, his life and yours were connected only by a series of unfortunate events and regardless of his death… you are still the same," he said aloud. Catching his reflection a mirror mounted on the stone wall, Harry saw the lie clouding his face. His eyes looked dead, the green washed away and replaced by shades of grey.

"It really doesn't make sense," he sighed, leaning into the glass to rest his forehead against the mirrored surface. That was the truth. Nothing made sense about his reaction to the memories of Severus Snape. Moreover, nothing made sense about any of the bollocks Harry sifted through on a daily basis. Being lost, now that made total sense. Harry was irrevocably, inexplicably lost.

The ceiling shifted causing all signs of light to fade and give way to tiny, twinkling stars and a brilliant full moon. Bloody hell! He'd better hurry if he wanted to collect the necessary ingredients before Professor Slughorn locked the potion's storage for the night. Not that Harry couldn't break the lock and reverse the spells, but he preferred to just slip in and slip out unnoticed. The more he tampered with the locks and wards on the storeroom, the more he risked Slughorn either changing the spells or catching him in the act.

Shivering at the familiar skittered of magic across his body; Harry pulled the Invisibility cloak snug onto his shoulders.

Nearly empty halls greeted Harry, a sight that always eased his tense nerves. Crowds generally made it more difficult to navigate while covered in the cloak. A part of him felt guilty for the occasional first year that bumped into the solid, invisible wall of Harry's chest. The wild-eyed look of shock and confusion was generally followed by a duck of their head and quick, silent exit.

Harry navigated the halls with ease. After seven years, he knew the castle well enough to travel to most known places without the use of the Marauder's Map, and the potion's store room was no exception. Dodging a few straggling Ravenclaws, heading back from a lengthy stay at the library most likely, Harry stayed to the shadows as he traversed the puzzle of moving staircases. He managed the trek in just three sets of stairs, which was actually quite remarkable. The last nightly stroll he took to the potion's store room found him lost on the stairs for a good half hour before he finally found his way.

At the arched entrance to the fourth floor mezzanine, Harry paused, listening for any approaching footsteps. Hearing nothing but the sound of his own breath, he reached for his wand and whispered the necessary words to open the door. Luckily the locks and wards were not in place just yet, or the process would have taken twice as long. Just as he was about to step inside and remove the cloak, a soft pitter patter caught his ear.

Darting his head left and right, Harry scanned the seemingly empty corridor. Seeing no one, he glanced down to reach for the door, only to catch sight of the culprit.

"Mrs. Norris, I should have known." The cat stood guard before the open door, perching lightly on her haunches. Her deep crimson eyes bore straight through the magic of the cloak, seeing Harry as if her were standing plainly at her feet. "I will never understand how it is you learned to ignore invisibility magic," he mused.

Mrs. Norris tilted her head and twitched her tail in response, as if to say, 'and you never will'.

"My apologies, old friend, but I can't risk dealing with Filch tonight. Animare somobulonus," the spell rolled off his tongue with ease, the soft orange light enveloping the tabby cat in a blanket of deep slumber. As her breathing stilled and finally came to a stop, Harry knew it was safe to move on. She would not wake until he released the spell.

Slipping quietly inside, Harry closed the door and removed his cloak. Quickly he set to work lighting the seemingly endless array of candle lanterns. With each flame lit, hundreds upon hundreds of jars became visible as they illuminated the small space in a rainbow of different colors, each one a reflection of the ingredients inside. All were carefully labeled so as not to cause confusion. One would hate to mistake Wormwood for Worn-wood. The result could be disastrous.

"Let's see, first I need the albino armadillo bile," Harry murmured, his eyes perusing the vast lengths of pine shelving. It should be found in the animal derivatives section which took up the entire right wall of the store room.

"Addled aardvark brains… African bee feet… aggravated viper venom." Harry's fingers followed his voice, tracing across the brittle labels with a gentle touch. After a few more jars, and more precarious labels, he found the first ingredient tucked back along the wall. The vile held a thick coat of dust and a dubious brown tint on the glass; Harry guessed it had been left sitting for quite some time. Hopefully the potency remained constant or else the brew wouldn't be anywhere near its full strength. It was the bile, Harry learned that morning in the Pensieve, which sustained the potency of the potion. Without good bile, the effects would last only a day versus feeling the power of the brew for three or more at a time.

After locating the gingko root, powdered unicorn horn and bog-frog blood (which looked very much like Aunt Petunia's holiday gelatin parfait), Harry started his search for the last item on the list: lascivious lavender. The purple tinted bottle was hard to miss, the large bulbous shape giving him a full view of the tiny, budding flowers lightly attached to a coiled vine. Strange that anyone would choose to keep a fresh flower in the store room. Most plant-based items were diced, powdered or liquefied for the purpose of storage. Normally, Harry would have to sneak into the Herbology greenhouses to gather any sort of fresh, growing flora or herbaceous ingredient.

The plant itself was strange, actually. The delicate, purple flowers did resemble that of a lavender bloom, but the color was off. A much more brilliant violet painted the blossoms, each petal shimmering with a distinct, glossy finish unlike that of any flower in the muggle world. Instead of the tall, slender stalk, these buds were fitted to a long vine that coiled down into the rounded glass container. The label read simply: _Lascivious lavender, use caution_.

"Caution? For a ruddy plant?"

Harry uncorked the stopper and was shocked by how strong of a scent such a little plant could possess. His eyes fluttered to a close, the fragrance so heady, so rich, he couldn't do anything but breathe it in. A feeling of calm came about, running tendrils of sweet softness across his pale skin. The touch so light he wasn't even sure he felt it at first, but as seconds blended into minutes, it became more insistent and much more present. He felt it travel up his arms, then down across his chest and torso only to weave around to his lower back. The touch turned from the feeling of magic to the warmth and feel of fingers sliding along, bunching up his robes as they went.

It was only when those fingers found the hem of his knickers that Harry realized the awkward truth of the situation. He was being molested… by a bloody flower.

"Pet…tt…tri…rificus totalis," Harry stammered. The vine stiffened and came to a halt. As it was, removing the damned thing proved difficult seeing as how it wove around his body thrice before snaking down to parts unmentionable. It took a few minutes, and quite a few more curses and snarls before he finally freed himself from the flower's grasp. "No wonder they keep you locked in here. An experience like that would surely kill Neville."

Extinguishing the lanterns and stowing his newly-acquired items in the large satchel at his side, Harry shivered as phantom fingers still crawled across his sensitive skin. "Lascivious indeed…"

Cloaked once more, Harry exited the store room, swiftly closing the door behind.

"All right there, young man?"

Bollocks. Right, foul git of a man, that Horace Slughorn was! The one night he managed to pry himself away from his biddy brandy and lock the store room on time and it had to be this night! Harry froze. Not a muscle, not even one fiber on a muscle, moved. Slughorn was so close that Harry could smell the old wizard's trademark aftershave. It was impossible for Slughorn to see him, but still that smell was getting closer. Harry must not have covered himself completely, or else there were more wizards who learned to see through invisibility magic like Dumbledore had.

"All right, Professor, how about you?" The second voice caught Harry off guard, and a good thing too, otherwise Bill Weasley would have run right into him. Skirting as close to the wall as possible, Harry held his breath as the cloak fluttered from Bill's nearness. If either man had been paying attention, they would have noticed just the briefest flash of tennis shoe.

"Doing well, my boy, doing well. Just locking up the old store room. Wouldn't want those naughty children sneaking around, now would we?" Harry watched as Slughorn maneuvered his wand to create an intricate pattern of wards. A few verbal charms and spells were added to that, and Harry was doubly glad he managed to arrive before Slughorn. He would have had a dreadful time breaking through all those safeguards.

"Certainly not, Professor."

"My boy, stop calling me Professor. You are, after all, a professor yourself. The time has come to call me Horace." Bill opened his mouth to respond, but Slughorn continued right along. "When are you going to grace me with your presence at one of my famous dinner parties, Master Bill?"

"Soon, I hope," Bill murmured. "Just a bit busy at the current moment. Speaking of which, I must be off. I have an endless stack of parchments to grade." Taking advantage of the rare moment in which Slughorn was not gabbing, Bill turned to make a hasty exit. Not so fast, though.

"Ah, Bill, one more thing," Slughorn called out. "Your sister, Miss Ginerva, is looking for you. Seemed rather distraught earlier on her way back from dinner. Might be a good idea to pip along and tend to her, young man."

"Too right you are, Sir." With that, Bill trotted off down the hall, turning right at the end to head towards the Gryffindor common room.

Ginny. Harry almost couldn't bear to hear her name for the overwhelming guilt that bubbled up in his stomach. He hadn't seen her in days and hadn't spoken to her in weeks, at least. Every time they did meet eyes or cross paths, Harry would dart the other way. It was cowardice at its best. Strange, when the war ended, Harry could not have imagined a life without Ginny in it, yet as time wore on, thing slowly changed. Not just the pieces of his life, but things inside of Harry shifted, altered and morphed him into a different person than he was as The Boy Who Lived. Over many months, he became the Man Who Should Have Died. At least, that's what he barbarically referred to himself as when he starred into the mirror each morning.

That wasn't Ginny's fault… it wasn't anybody's fault really. People changed, they grew up, became adults and sometimes they left others behind. It wasn't the person he'd become that bothered him so; it was the way that man dealt with the problems that arose. Harry wasn't much of a Gryffindor, at least not as much as he used to be as a boy with overwhelming confidence and brass. Slinking around behind Bill Weasley in order to invisibly confront the distraught girlfriend he once cared for sounded much more like a Slytherin to Harry.

"Ginny, what are you doing out so late?" Bill's voice startled Harry, as did the how close he had come to running into Bill for the second time that night. "Shouldn't you be in bed?"

"I suppose so," Ginny mumbled, her voice trailing off.

"All right, out with it. You know you could never keep anything from your big brother."

Ginny sniffled, looking all at once the grown woman and the little girl Harry remembered so well. Bill, ever the model of what a brother should be, stepped forward to wrap his hands around her shoulders. With a soft touch, he smoothed the wrinkles of her black robe. It must have felt nice, his touch, because Ginny closed her eyes for a moment and let out a stale sigh.

"Headmistress McGonagall approached me today with an offer that I would be a fool not to take." Ginny opened her eyes to find Bill waiting, patiently, for her to continue.

"It seems that the Ministry of Magic has instituted a new magical education exchange program. The headmistress submitted my name for consideration and, well, I guess my reputation preceded me."

"I surmise, you were selected, Ginerva?" Bill smiled as Ginny openly cringed at the sound of her given name. "And you are upset at the thought of leaving?"

Ginny nodded.

"Leaving Harry?"

She nodded once more.

Harry's stomach clenched as bile rose to the back of his throat. The guilt swelled beyond his comprehension, the taste of his shrinking courage a bitter acid to the tongue.

"Oh, Ginerva, what a brilliant young woman you've grown to be," Bill whispered, taking her hand. "This opportunity was made for you, and yet, you don't even think you're worth the time it took for Minerva to submit your name."

"I do, Bill, but I can't leave Harry. He may be done with me, but I am not ready to let us go. Have you seen him lately? He looks so pale, and thin, and I swear he never eats a crumb, Bill, not even a crumb!" Her voice ended on a whimper.

"Hm, I have noticed a few things, yes." He paused, a moment of deep thought passing over his fair features. Harry paused too. Not breathing for fear that he might miss what came next. So Bill was watching him. Ginny, too! And noticing much more than Harry would like to give them credit for, mind you. The color loss in his skin, his far-to-lean figure… and he thought he hid it so well. Really? Did he truly believe he was fooling anyone, or did it just come to the point where he didn't care who figured it all out?

"Bill, you are being dreadfully quiet. Tell me what you're thinking about, won't you?"

"What if I make you a deal? I will watch Harry in your stead. I'll make sure he eats, stays healthy, and even socializes a bit in your absence."

"You would do that?" Hope lit up her round, green eyes and for the first time all semester, Harry saw a bit of a smile play across her lips. She looked pretty that way, she truly did.

"Of course I would, Ginerva. You deserve this adventure, not for Harry, not for me or Mum or any of the rest of your bloody family, but for yourself. This is how wizards and witches are made. This is how you find who you are meant to become." Bill stepped forward, his height so much greater than that of Ginny. As he wrapped his long arms around her, Ginny sighed as fresh tears rolled down her cheeks.

"I really do want to go. You know I would be staying at Beauxbatons?"

"Oh yes? Well, I am sure Fleur will enjoy seeing a familiar face from good ole London town. She has been quiet lonely since her temporary tenure began. You could be just the right sort of ginger person to help cure her sadness."

"Oy, enough with the ginger remarks, you ginger!" Ginny laughed as she smacked Bill's upper arm. The two fell easily into another hug as Harry had known all the Weasley siblings to be known to do. And, as always, Harry was left alone to watch, jealously longing for anything half as real but falling miserably short.

"All right now?" Bill asked, receiving a swift nod from his younger sister. "Good, then off to bed. You have a fair bit of packing to do in the morning."

Ginny turned to leave, but just as quickly stopped and faced Bill once more.

"You promise you'll look after Harry? And not just for the first few days after I'm gone, right?"

"Ginerva, I solemnly vow to look after Harry as I would my own little brothers. You have nothing to concern yourself with besides learning and having a very wonderful trip."

"And I will be home for every holiday, no worries there! Who knows, maybe Harry will realize what he's missed and we can get along just as we use to, don't you think?" Bill nodded slightly and patted Ginny's shoulder. She seemed happy with his response, because in a moment she turned once again and made her way swiftly down the corridor.

Harry shouldn't have followed Bill. He should never have overheard that conversation and then he would have never known that not only were people onto him and his suspicious behavior, but Bill bloody Weasley would now be his personal watch hawk. Those hazel eyes would follow Harry no matter where he went. There would be no escape, no reprieve. Damn that Bill, damn Ginny and damn their pity and concern. It'd be a cold day in hell before Harry let Bill Weasley worm his way in and an even colder day when his begotten girlfriend could control his life from a thousand miles away.

Harry's robes billowed behind as he stormed off down the maze of corridors. Lost in a haze of confusion and anger, Harry didn't remember the trip to his quarters and before he could question how he got there, he was standing at that heavy oak door.

A resounding slam of that same door eased the swelling anger, but only slightly. The urge to open that door and close it seven more times just to hear that echoing slam was so strong, Harry had to breathe deep and bite his tongue to stave off the urge. If he could just hear that sound, feel the vibrations of his frustration through the wood, he knew it would help. It had too! What else would fix him? What else who fill that damn empty hole that was clawing at him from the inside out.

_Nothing. _The small voice from the back of Harry's mind knew best. Nothing. Nothing could fix him. He was beyond repair.

"Not beyond a quick fix, though. Otherwise, Bill might start getting more suspicious than tonight's little episode." Anger flashed through Harry, so hot and quick, his vision turned red. How dare Ginny hire a babysitter to watch him! Couldn't she get the hint that all Harry wanted was to be left alone?!

"Well, let's just make sure he has no reason to babysit, then!" Harry shouted as he emptied the satchel of ingredients onto a long, flat table. With a flick of his wand, he ignited a brilliant fire beneath an aging, copper cauldron.

Handling the armadillo bile first, Harry haphazardly sloshed an indistinct amount into the cauldron. Glancing over the instructions he'd written just a few hours before, Harry continued with the bog-frog blood. '16 ounces measured exactly'; sure, he could do that. Upending the bottle, he allowed copious amounts of the thick, red fluid to ooze and meld with the hideous, white bile. The fire beneath the cauldron sparked with immense heat, the flames that should have been orange now breathing with vibrant blue.

"Now the lavender, finely minced," Harry announced. Minced, much like Bill Weasley's brain if he actually thought spying on Harry was the best solution to everyone's problems.

The sharp-bladed knife worked furiously in Harry's hand. The sound of it slicing through the soft lavender and into the hard, wooden board beneath made his lips quiver into a pleasured grin. Though it felt satisfying, it did little to wane his anger.

"Saint Potter, the little Boy Who Lived, struggles to read even the simplest of instructions." The voice eased into the silence, the familiar dark tone caressing Harry's skin like the softest of touches. "The brew calls for minced lascivious lavender, not macerated. What sort of idiot child would find a simple potion so bloody difficult? As you contemplate the loss of ten points from Gryffindor I strongly suggest you gather more lavender."

"And. Begin. Again."

The last three words were a faint hiss, so real to his mind that Harry swore he felt the hot breath on his right ear.

That would be impossible, of course, but for a moment he allowed himself the time to fall into the fantasy: Snape standing behind him, looming in those black robes, his hands snaking their way around Harry's lithe body to guide his own in slow, careful knife work. It all felt so real that Harry had to stop himself from turning to see if the Snape was there at his back. All those hours spent hearing Snape's voice in the pensieve must have ingrained the sounds deep within his psyche, so much so that he could just think about the words and hear them straight away as if they were spoken aloud.

With a sigh and an easy smile, Harry nodded. "Yes, Professor Snape," he said softly.

As his emotions washed away, he calmly started the potion again. Steady hands guided each instrument and careful measurements were taken as ingredients were added one after another into the bubbling, brass cauldron. In short order, the compilation was complete, the brew emitting a soothing odor that was intoxicating and sedating all at once.

For the next hour, Harry whiled away in the study, carefully checking the potion's progress every so often. As what had then become habit, he recorded his newest concoction in a slender, dragon hide journal purchased from Diagon Alley just weeks before. After brewing so many different potions, Harry had come to learn that keeping a record of what worked, what didn't and the side effects he experienced was truly a genius idea. An idea that Harry wished he could claim for himself, but in reality, it was also borrowed from Severus Snape. After each potion he brewed in the replayed memories, Snape would record his findings in a large journal, twice the size of Harry's.

"He always had a knack for showing me up, so I suppose I shouldn't be surprised at the enormous monstrosity he called a journal." Harry's voice fell on deaf ears, as it always did. However, maybe it was the potion's already effective fumes starting to take hold, Harry didn't feel as morose as he usually did upon realizing his conversations would never be returned.

"Bottoms up," he chirped, tipping a small teaspoon of the warm liquid onto his tongue.

The warmth spread across his mouth, slid languidly down his throat and settled neatly at the pit of his stomach. For the first time (outside the pensive, of course) in what seemed like years, Harry found himself grinning from ear to ear.

Oh yes, that Severus Snape _was _a genius and thanks to him, Harry knew sleep would come swift and easily that night.

_"This way, Potter! Wouldn't do to get lost down here," she yelled, her voice echoing across the seemingly endless tunnels of stone. _

_"Professor I really don't see the point in all this. I could always just stay in Hogsmede, or, gee I dunno, rent a flat somewhere like any adult would do…" Harry's words trailed off as he spotted McGonagall once more, her hands placed firmly on her hips and a scowl forming on her face. "Or not."_

"_Now Potter, you know the Ministry has just decreed you the Wizarding World's Ambassador of Goodwill and with that comes certain responsibilities." Her voice softened a bit as she placed a hand on his shoulder. "Merlin knows you have never had a childhood, dear boy, and once again it seems that growth and change are being thrust upon you at a time when most young wizards are enjoying life and exploring the world. I am sorry, Harry, but I must ask that you stay at Hogwarts at least until then end of term. Maybe then the Ministry will see fit to release you onto your own care." She patted his shoulder once, twice and then once more for good measure before turning to face an aged, wooden door. _

_Without another word, McGonagall lead Harry into the dark room. Whispering a spell, she flicked her wand and illuminated the wall sconces. The fire did strange things to the room as it cast thick shadows from the interaction against the stone walls. Shapes leapt to life, bouncing here and there about the place, much like some off-kilter kids game where one made shapes with his or her hands. The shapes were alive, though, each black mass breathing as it moved across the space. _

"_They look like ghosts."_

"_What was that, Potter?" McGonagall's voice pulled Harry's attention away from the shadow figures, though he was hard pressed to keep focused on her for very long. "Moving along, here is everything you will need to get settled in. It won't be for very long, Potter. Only until we have a chance to clear up that nasty imp infestation on the fourth floor North Tower." _

"_If you need anything, just ask the house elves," the older woman called as she headed out the open door. Harry listened as the sound of her footsteps grew more and more faint, and then disappeared altogether. _

_The room was empty, with exception to a very large, very green sofa that honestly had seen better days. Harry sat gingerly on the edge, his body tense, silently urging the dark masses to appear once more._

Harry tossed and twisted, the motion causing an uncomfortable tangle of his legs in the flannel sheets of the bed. He woke slowly, fumbling in the dark for his wand and glasses.

"Lumos." The soft, white light emitted was just barely enough to see by. In a quick motion, Harry snatched the covers and yanked his legs free. As the flutter of fabric settled, he took survey of the dark room. An old potion's cabinet now served as a wardrobe, the aging remains of a classroom desk repurposed for a window seat, while two antique bar stools stood opposite one another as night stands. As his eye wandered beyond the bedroom, Harry could just make out the shape of the old couch across the open space and slowly, the remnants of a dream came sliding into his mind.

Flashes of McGonagall, the dungeon, and his private chamber played over and again as he tried to make sense of it all. Why would he dream of something that already happened? Assuming the abnormal dream patterns would result in ludicrous or unimaginable dreams of surreal experiences, Harry hadn't thought twice about the pre warned side-effect of his Calming Quick-Wit draught. But this, a memory disguised as a dream, was something different altogether. It all felt so much more real than a normal dream, and even more real than the premonition dreams he at one time experienced.

A potion that calmed your nerves and sharpened your mind_ and_ created dreams from memories… Harry couldn't put his finger on it but something felt uncomfortable about the whole thing. An uneasy feeling spread through his core. Foreboding clouded his thoughts as the memory dream played over and over in his mind. Really, the memory was nothing important, and one that Harry had forgotten almost as quickly as it happened, so why did he feel so rattled?

"Just another reason someone should lock me in St. Mungos," he chided. Clutching the blankets, Harry pulled them over his head as he snaked down inside. It wasn't a cause for alarm. At least the tremors had ceased, and if the draught could keep up his appetite while easing the torrent of emotions leaking from the void inside his chest, then a few strange dreams were a fair price to pay. He'd be damned if a string of dreams would cause him panic. He'd faced more frightening things. That he was absolutely sure of.

Closing his eyes, Harry let the inviting black of sleep take over once more. As his consciousness faded away, the anxiety of what dreams may come still lingered just on the edge of his mind.


	4. Two Steps Forward

Chapter 4—Two Steps Forward

"Pass the sausage, if you wouldn't mind?"

"Oh, certainly, Harry dear," Professor Trelawney murmured, her withered hand trembling slightly from the odd angle of her wand. Effortlessly the platter lifted and floated towards him and with great ease, set itself down beside his empty plate.

The aroma was mesmerizing. The mouthwatering smell of salt, grease and pork wove its way into Harry's senses, causing his stomach to rumble in hunger. It was as if he hadn't eaten in months. Though, could he even remember the last time he had eaten, truly eaten, real food?

"Good morning, Harry." The chipper baritone cut through Harry's delight over the impending sausage-to-mouth interaction. "All right?"

"Nothing a spot of breakfast won't solve," Harry said just before appeasing his desire and stuffing half a link into his mouth. The taste, Merlin's beard! It was better than the smell, if that was at all conceivable. An unconscious sigh escaped his lips. Bite after bite, the taste sensation never faded. Bless that Severus Snape and his Calming-Wit Quick Ended drought whatever-the-such concoction. Worked like a bloody charm! For the first time in months, he finally felt like he was taking two steps forward and it felt fantastic.

"Harry, my boy, something amusing?" Slughorn questioned. Amusing… no, not particularly. Harry felt the muscles in his face relax. He'd been smiling? Wait, did he laugh? Cutting a glance to his left and right, Harry surveyed the table of professors, finding that quite a few were cautiously watching him. Well that would make sense then. When a person laughs aloud regardless of being spoken to or not, it tends to warrant a few odd looks. "Harry, my boy?"

"Oh, nothing, Sir. Just remembering a good joke s'all."

"Ah, well then have you heard the one about the pixie in the pie shop?" Seemingly appeased, Slughorn prattled on with the harrowing tale of one devilish pixie and one furious Muggle pie maker. Thankfully the remainder of the concerned eyes turned back to their own plates, avoiding even the thought of listening to one of Slughorn's absurd stories.

Once again left to his own devices, Harry allowed himself a moment of quiet satisfaction. Closing his eyes, he concentrated on the incredible tastes swirling about his tongue, savoring each delicious bite. A cloudy haze crept over his mind, his thoughts all but vanishing beneath the foggy delight of taste. So this must be it... the food-gasm. Harry remembered Ron speaking of it often during the long hours spent seated at the student tables, much to the chagrin of one Hermoine Granger if memory served. It was always such a ridiculous idea that food could cause any sort of reaction close to that of... well... _that_. Harry remembered telling Ron such, in not so many words. Not that either one had much to compare it to. Lonely nights spent hiding beneath a Quieting Charm did little more than ease Harry's tension... he figured Ron felt the same.

"What about Ginny?"

"I never, no... not with Ginny," Harry stammered, pulling himself away from the warmth of his food coma. Glancing from left to right, he tried to find the owner of the question at hand. It was then that Bill came into view.

"You never what with Ginny?" The furrowed look of Bill's eyebrows told Harry that an answer to that question was unnecessary. Bill knew full well what had been lingering on Harry's mind. Bugger. Just when things were starting to look up... here came a Weasley.

"Nothing," he murmured, hoping it would suffice.

"As I was saying, what about Ginny? She's leaving today for a lengthy trip and I am fairly certain she would accept you were you to send her off." The persuasive tone of his voice did little to sway Harry. Not that Bill was aware, but Harry had already made up his mind not to see Ginny off today, feeling that it would be best for everyone involved.

"Or if you would prefer, you could stop by my Defense Against the Dark Arts class and show off your teaching skills," Bill said rather slyly. Suddenly seeing Ginny off was sounding much more appealing to Harry… as he suspected Bill knew already. Damn that McGonagall and her ridiculous desire to employ the only Weasley who'd actually managed to perfect the act of sticking his nose where it didn't belong.

"I'll be off then," Harry chimed, surprised by the still chipper sound of his own voice, even in spite of the fact that now he'd have to face Ginny. At least the potion seemed to be playing in his favor, which truly was a relief. With Bill sniffing about, his hawk-like senses at full tilt, Harry truly needed his game to be spot on and with Severus Snape's secret potion in his corner that might actually be achievable.

That secret potion did work quite well. As Harry followed the map inside his mind, twisting and turning around corners into corridor after corridor, his emotions stayed calm and collected. With each passing minute, he found himself that much closer to the one thing he'd been dreading and subsequently avoiding for over a month now and even still his emotions remained the same. Yes, the potion worked quite well on his emotions… but Harry's mind was another story all together.

'No, no I really do not want to do this,' he told himself over and again.

'Nothing good will come of this. Ginny will be hurt and I will certainly feel more guilty than I already do and for what? To say goodbye? And that is the first thing I will have said in a countless number of days? Oh sure, this is just the brightest idea since I don't know when!'

Harry's mind was reeling, churning with fraught, guilt and indecision. Adding to the overwhelming war in his head was the total opposite emotional response. Momentarily, Harry found himself intrigued at the idea that the calming side of Snape's concoction worked directly and only with the emotions of a wizard. Consequently, the quick-witted effect would most likely correspond to only mental acuity.

'Yes, quite fascinating, maybe I should head to my quarters and do a spot of emergency research,' he told himself. 'Undoubtedly that is what I should be doing.'

With his mind made up, Harry stopped mid-stride, yet before he could make a move to turn around, he felt a strange sensation at the small of his back. Warmth, faint but present, pressed against the curve of his lower spine. The feeling spread wide, becoming stronger, more insistent. In mere moments, Harry felt himself being pushed down the corridor. The nudge was gentle, but nonetheless firm. Perplexed, Harry allowed the motion to carry his feet forward.

All the shouting in his head quieted as he tried to focus on what, or who, exactly was casting such a strange incantation. It wasn't long though that his thoughts were yet again distracted, only this time not by something he felt, but by something he saw. From the corner of his eye, Harry caught sight of a long, black robe billowing round the bend to disappear out into the open courtyard.

"Snape?" Harry questioned aloud, unable to stop himself. His reaction was immediate and overwhelming. The warmth at his back was nothing now in comparison to the fire raging in his chest. Verdant eyes dilated, nostrils flared and skin became slick with sweat as all of his senses heightened. It was Snape, it had to have been. There was no mistaking that robe and the way it moved in the wind. Harry of all people would know. After the infinity of hours spent watching in the pensieve, he was practically a Severus Snape expert.

He didn't remember running. In his mind, Harry's steps were excruciatingly slow as he followed in the wake of the inky cloak tail. Time elapsed at a crawling pace as his body refused to move quickly enough and he wanted to scream from the frustration of it all as he finally stepped out onto the open lawn. He'd known before his eyes could register that the cloak, and who ever wore it, was gone. It made sense; after all, rationally Harry knew seeing the pale man in black was truly impossible. To Harry, the time from when he felt the warm nudge to the moment upon the yard where the crushing disappointment of losing Snape all over again threatened to immobilize him seemed as long as hours.

Upon hearing the light falsetto of Ginny's voice, though, Harry realized not nearly enough time had passed as he sharply remembered why he'd tried to turn back in the first place.

"Har…Harry?"

"Um, yeah, all right there, Ginny?" Harry asked, his voice barely a mumble.

Her round eyes lit up, her expression lifting into one of joy and undeniable shock. She looked young, vibrant and alive, just as she had the first moment Harry met her so many years before at the Burrow. No words were needed to convey exactly how happy Ginny was in that moment, the emotion poured out of her like pure, golden sunshine and Harry wanted nothing more than to slink away from the light into the comforting familiarity of shadowed darkness.

"I hoped you would come, but honestly, I thought the idea was truly mad," she whispered. A blush formed on her cheeks, the delicate rose color turning Harry's stomach. He watched as her pink lips moved, words spilling over into the space between their bodies, but the sound fell on deaf ears. His mind reeled at the scene before him: the sweet, tender, beautiful girl of his dreams was there, professing what was surely undoubted devotion and caring words of compassion beneath a vibrant blue sky on a storybook spring afternoon. It was perfect, by any means of measure and yet there was no single piece that felt even remotely right to Harry. Having suspected for quite some time the reason for his avoidance, Harry finally allowed himself to admit the ugly truth- his love for Ginny Weasley had died.

"I think I should be off," he interjected, cutting her off mid-sentence.

"Well, sure, I understand. After all, you are such a busy man, Harry Potter." She smiled coyly as she moved closer. "Like I said, I really am glad you came to see me off. I think we were able to communicate better than we have in ages and maybe, just maybe, fix a bit of that which has gone so awry."

"Oh… well, Gin… I," Harry stammered, unable to find the words.

From the distance, a loud, careening whinny carried along the breeze. The thundering sound of enormous wings echoed off the stone castle walls.

"Looks like I, also, have to be off," she said, ending the phrase in a bubbly giggle as a team of white horses flew overhead. "I'll be home for Christmas holiday, Harry, and we can work everything else out then. I love you."

The sudden weight of Ginny's lips against his caught him completely off guard, as did those three little words. Sure, she'd said them before, and he had even returned the sentiment a time or two but that had been so very long ago.

The sensation of those words and the feel of her lips was nothing like Harry remembered. Even in his darkest moments, he had held firm to those fleeting memories of he and Ginny when they first started going together: the fluttering heartbeats, the stolen glances, the quickening of his pulse whenever they touched. Those were the things that gave him hope, maybe not for he and Ginny but hope that one day, he could feel that way again with someone else.

But with her lips against his, Harry felt nothing at all like that overjoyed, love-sick school boy.

He felt like a cold, distinctly desperate man who would rather never feel again than feel the sickly longing for a true lover's touch that her kiss left in the pit of his stomach.

"Goodbye, Harry," she whispered, her breath hot on his face, the sensation making him that much more uncomfortable. Without another word, she turned and walked off towards the Magical Creatures Paddock where, logic would say, she boarded the carriage and flew off into the deep, blue sky. Sounded perfect, all right.

"Yeah, bloody perfect except for the wanker of a boyfriend she left on the ground," Harry groaned outwardly, kicking himself for having ever decided to see Ginny off. "That's right, Potter, time for another pity party afternoon filled with loathing, self doubt and overwhelming tidal waves of guilt."

Harry's words echoed for a moment, allowing him the chance to hear how miserable he actually sounded. He felt miserable, truly, but how long had it been that apparent in his voice as well? He didn't know, and fuck all, he really didn't care. Misery was his constant companion. It slid across his body when he felt cold and kept company with him in bed at night. Misery was the only truth Harry could find and he held fast to it, lest it slip through his fingers into the fog as everything else already had.

Along the wind, the chiming of the massive bronze bell in the West Tower Owlery signaled the coming of the hour. In just minutes, the courtyard flooded with flocks of students, their black cloaks scattering behind each one in the breeze. Harry's mind immediately conjured the image of the deep black cloak tail disappearing into the courtyard and truly, a part of him still held fast to the idea that it was Snape, no matter how unrealistic the idea might be. Funny how following that tenuous vestige of Snape had led him straight to Ginny, as if somehow on purpose. If that were the case, then in no way, shape or form had that cloak belonged to Severus Snape. Harry knew it would be a cold day in hell before the slender man in black meddled in the idiotic love affairs of his students, especially those belonging to Harry bloody Potter.

"Figment of the imagination, s'all," Harry murmured aloud, catching the eye of a few wary students. For the love of Merlin, can't a man talk to himself now and again without judgmental looks from ache-ridden teenage wizards?! Dragon fire! He couldn't go anywhere or do anything without the attention of at least 50 people unless he did so beneath the shadowed veil of the invisibility cloak and that, of course, was back in his personal quarters.

Oh he could go and get it. The courtyard wasn't too far from the entrance to the dungeons and the trip would allow him to get out of the limelight as it were, but Harry knew what would happen if he disappeared to his room. The pensieve would awaken before he could close the door and in moments, he would find himself falling into the silvery depths of Severus Snape's memories. Any other time, Harry would be intoxicated at the idea of an afternoon spent watching over his most secret of desires, but after his ill-fated run-in with Ginny, he wasn't sure if his psyche could handle any more confusion and disappointment.

At such an early hour, Harry knew of only one place in the entire castle where he could be truly alone, devoid of any interaction with student, professor or semi-ex girlfriend alike.

The fifth floor prefects' bathroom was blissfully quiet.

Ornate Italian marble decorated the expansive floor in deep hues of navy, black and highlights of gold. Heavy silver plumbing snaked here and there, the gleaming faucets hiding their considerable age with no sign of wear or rust. The stone walls that adorned every other part of the castle looked different there; the stained glass windows cascading hundreds of colors and lights upon them to transform the otherwise dull, dark stone into a transcendent theater of life and dance and Harry had the best seat in the house.

"Accio towel," he whispered, catching the fluffy, white bundle just before it hit the water. With a practiced hand, he folded and rolled until it became a tidy little package and with a sigh, he tucked it beneath his head and closed his eyes. "This is exactly what I needed."

No prying eyes and wary glances. No concerned looks, no polite chit chat, no witty banter. No Ginny, no Bill, no Snape… Harry was totally alone. The last thought stung a bit, the absence of his dark muse causing a familiar ache in his chest. It was not a new realization. Every where he went, Harry was reminded that Snape no longer existed outside the realm of dreams and memories. Though not a new sensation, the clawing expanse of loneliness nevertheless made his breath catch.

Breathing deep, Harry allowed the calming scent of vanilla and lavender to wisp around his body and mind, weaving an enchanting spell that, coupled with the still present effects of his Quick-Witted Calming Draught, did just enough to ease that persistent emotional pain.

"No matter what, Mister Potter, do not, by any means, open your eyes." Harry's pulse quickened as a chill ran across his skin, leaving tiny bumps in its wake. His body tightened, his heart rammed against the confines of his chest and all of his blood drained into his pelvis.

"Snape?"

The question was barely a whisper, so quiet that Harry thought for a moment he hadn't managed to speak at all, but just when he opened his mouth to speak again, the voice returned.

"That is Professor Snape to you, Potter. I would hope that what little time I have been gone has not softened your already dim mind to the point where basic manners are out of your conceivable reach."

"Sorry, Professor Snape," he mumbled.

"I see your eloquent mastery of the English language is still remarkable and ever-growing," the voice returned, the sarcasm dripping from each syllable enough so that Harry swore if he reached out he could feel it.

"I am elated to find that you, at least, have remained unchanged, boy." For a moment, the voice softened, becoming much more the timbre Harry enjoyed each time he visited the pensieve. The words were still crisp, the dictation still the same, but it was as if the entire pretense that Snape carried in Harry's days as a student was gone and he was speaking as he did to anyone else or to himself as he did inside the memories… he was speaking as Severus.

"I have changed, though," Harry stated boldly. "I am not a boy anymore."

"Oh well, yes, that it most evident." Snape's voice changed yet again, this time coming with a hiss of something Harry had never heard before… could it be… seduction?

Strong hands found his chest and Harry nearly choked as the shock overcame him, the jolt from his body causing the water to roll wave after wave into his face. He could clearly feel the warm skin, the heavy pressure of large palms and deft fingers gliding across his slick collar bone. He felt every delicious inch of those hands as they traveled from his collar, down his midline to dip below the bath water, kneading the muscles of his abdomen.

"Quite the musculature you have developed, Potter. All those hours on the Quidditch pitch finally paying off?"

"Um, yeah, s…so… ma… many hours…" Harry stammered.

"Ah yes, indeed I believe you have changed considerably, in a many numerous ways," Snape whispered, the sound so close Harry could feel the hot exhale of breath on his ear. How was that even possible? There was no way a dream, hallucination, whatever could cause him to feel anything so how in the world… oh Merlin's beard!

Harry's hips jerked forward as the skilled hands eased lower, stroking gently across his hard length.

"My how much you've grown, Potter! You have certainly become an excellent example of the male physique."

The urge to open his eyes, to see Snape and find those hands was overwhelming, so much so that Harry lifted his head from where it rest, intent on seeing everything first hand. The resulting shove knocked the air from his lungs.

"Now, now, Potter, I just offered you a compliment and there you go, fouling it up with your blatant disregard of the rules. Did I not state in simple and plain words that you were to keep your eyes closed!?"

"Yyye… yes, Professor," Harry answered, catching a bit of his breath as the pressure shifted. Instead of the heavy pressure of a push, he began to feel the comfortable weigth of a body pressed against his own. "Are you ho… holding me down, Professor?"

"Yes."

The hands returned, the gentle touch at once turning insistent, the strokes coming faster and harder with each pass.

"Do you wish me to cease, Potter?"

"No… please don't stop."

A velvet laugh filled the air, the sound odd and ungodly erotic and every fiber of Harry's being screamed for it never to stop and for it all to end right that second because he knew how good it would feel and before he could breathe or speak once more everything fell apart.

"Snape!" He cried out, his body releasing every bit of itself into those talented hands. Again and again he pumped, hips rocking back and forth until he had nothing left. Exhausted, Harry flopped his head back, still mumbling his visitor's name over and over like some devious mantra.

"Merlin's beard, that was incredible, Professor Snape."

Silence met his words, the slight echo telling him the room was completely empty.

"Snape?" Harry questioned, daring to open his eyes.

The bathroom looked just as it had when he had climbed into the large tub, not a towel or stone disturbed. Quiet steam rose from the slightly undulating water as fresh soap trickled from the hundreds of shining faucets. Nothing was different, nothing had changed.

Looking down, Harry noted that at least one thing had changed: his own hand held a drastically less impressive part of himself.

"My own hand, huh?" Of course, what else did he expect? Severus Snape, naked and smooshed against his body like some wanton, sex-crazed adolescent… no, that was absurd. What happened was nothing more than a dream. Another figment of his potion-fueled imagination.

Harry assured himself with that explanation again as he used a fresh towel to dry his still quivering limbs. Surely it was the potion. That was the only rational reasoning for the vivid daydream.

"No matter how real it seemed, or how bloody good it felt, it just wasn't real Potter so snap out of it!" Harry shouted, hoping that hearing the words aloud would help cement the truth in his mind. His voiced echoed around the room, the sound eerie and distant, just as Snape's voice had been earlier. True, he could tell himself, shout it out loud, that it was all a dream and most parts of him would believe it so. But deep down, as Harry gave one last look back before leaving the now dark bathroom, he had a distinct feeling that what just happened was far from a dream and vastly beyond his ability to reason it away.

Harry was Alice and he would follow his little black rabbit as far down the hole as it took to catch him.

"Two steps back," he said, shaking his head as he closed the heavy door behind him.


	5. Band Aid for the Bullet Hole

Chapter 5- Band Aid for the Bullet Hole

* * *

"Be careful, Harry. With all the sneaking about, one might think you are up to no good."

Harry froze, half hunched over the pile of discarded clothes carried in his arms. The thick, green terry cloth robe hung loose around his shoulders, the front gaping open just enough to make him thankful his unwelcomed visitor was standing at his back.

"Oh, Bill… thought you might be in class or something…" His voice trailed off, his mind still so foggy with satiation that he had no strength for lies and deception.

"Sorry, it won't happen again," Harry muttered, nodding his head towards the bathroom entrance.

The hearty chuckle caught him off guard, the sound so different than the disappointed sigh he had come to expect from Bill, the resident watchdog. "Harry, if you think you are the only one to sneak into the prefect's bath for a long soak, you are sadly mistaken. Merlin, the twins basically held up shop in there for their last two years at Hogwarts."

Genuine laughter escaped Harry's lips. In a quick motion, he tied the robe closed and turned to flash a brilliant smile.

"You know, I honestly miss those two," he said, meaning every word. Fred and George understood Harry in ways that no one else had, not even Hermione and Ron. Maybe it was their rebellious streak or their ability to look beyond the status quo to find all the goodies underneath. Maybe they just fancied him a bit more than their brothers. Whatever the reason, the twins had always looked after him and he missed their watchful, playful attention.

"As do I," Bill whispered, his eyes losing a bit of their normal, joyful glow. It was only a moment, but for those few seconds, Harry remembered that Bill was still a boy, not unlike Harry himself. No matter the fact that his sister tasked him to play prison guard… Bill was still as close to family as Harry would ever have, as were all the Weasleys. He should really try to treat him a bit better.

"You do realize that just as I did with those two trouble-makers, Harry, I have to turn you in, yes?"

Right. Just when he'd convinced himself that Bill Weasley was one of the good guys, he had to go and open his gigantic, pushy, overly-indulged mouth. "Do you now?"

"Truly I should, Harry," Bill said as a contemplative look came over his features, "but at this moment in time, I find myself more intrigued with the idea of garnering your help in exchange for my silence."

"Are you blackmailing me, Weasley?"

"It would seem as such."

"At least you're honest about it," Harry murmured, half amused by the situation and half outraged at the idea that someone so… so… _ginger _could play this ruthless game. It seemed that Harry wasn't the only Gryffindor with hidden Slytherin tendencies.

"Though seeing as how you have already agreed to what I am about to ask of you, blackmail might be a tad harsh. One would simply view it as collecting upon that which is owed."

The boggart… bollocks! Harry had totally forgotten about his hasty agreement at breakfast that morning and of course, Bill Weasley forgot nothing so wouldn't it figure he would come to take Harry upon his given word. His mind worked to figure out a way out of the agreement. Being forced to spend time in a classroom again, around those eager students and their eager, young professor would be absolute torture. Not only that, but wasn't he just a bit too experienced to face another boggart? After Voldemort, the dementors, Bellatrix Lestrange, Gringotts, Basilisks, Horcruxes, packs of Acromantulas, Deathly Hallows and not to mention watching almost everyone he loved die horrible deaths, not only once but for countless nights after in his nightmares… a boggart seemed an exercise in utter rubbish and a pointless waste of time.

Taking Harry's silence as a stubborn acceptance, Bill clapped him on the shoulder, chuckling softly. "The class begins at 5 o'clock this evening. I assume you know how to get there."

With a broad grin of his perfect, white teeth, Bill took off at an easy stride down the corridor, leaving Harry standing dumbfounded at the turn of events. Not only had he been blackmailed by a Weasley, he'd been conned into doing the one thing he swore he would never do when he came back to Hogwarts: teach.

"Oh and Harry," Bill called out over his shoulder, "you may want to hurry back to your personal chambers seeing as how morning classes will be out in, oh… five minutes or so."

As the realization dawned that he was standing in nothing but a bath robe in the middle of the most frequented corridor in the entire castle, the sound of Bill's hearty laughter echoed along the walls.

Harry uttered Scarpin's Revelaspellto unlock the wards on his chamber door and disappeared into the room beyond with under a minute to spare. With a disgusted huff, he tossed the pile of clothes to the floor, throwing himself down onto the worn, green couch. For someone the Ministry hailed as the greatest thing since Spello-tape, Harry felt much more like a prisoner than a hero. At one time, Hogwarts had been his home. He'd grown up there, discovered magic there, hell he'd discovered himself there and in the matter of a few short months those hallowed halls had become nothing more than a cold, stone prison. Harry wasn't the Man of our Time; he was the Man Time had Forgotten.

While other wizards and witches his age were growing up, starting families, getting jobs and moving forward, Harry was frozen at the exact spot Voldemort had left him in. The war was finished, the fighting done, and the rest of the Wizarding World hadn't given two thoughts about whether or not their lives should go on. But not Harry, no, he wasn't allowed. Instead he was forced to live and relive the season of his past, all the while encouraging others to follow the signs of their future.

"Sometimes it bloody sucks to be the good guy," Harry sighed.

As if on cue, a soft hiss escaped into the silence. An eerie glow slowly filled the room, its murky blue haze so familiar he need not turn around to know the source. The pensieve, he knew, would be hovering, lying in wait for his skilled hand to bring alive a memory. Just like so many times before, the temptation came. It slid across his skin like the cold scales of a snake, weaving into his brain, calling out for him to cross the room and fall into a place where disappointment, confusion and disgust did not exist. Sweat beaded across his brow, a dry heat filled his mouth and lungs. Craving that which lay at the bottom of the silver bowl, Harry knew the hunger, the insatiable thirst, would not subside until he tipped one of the vials and followed his black bunny down the rabbit hole once more.

"I have time," Harry murmured, seeing that the large clock on the wall read 10:15am. "Plenty of time, and besides, if I am to deal with my new position at Hogwarts as guest teacher, best to be reminded of the only upside to living at this ruddy castle."

The forced justification was enough to move him from the couch, not that he needed to declare out loud a reason for his actions. He had known as soon as the shallow bowl emerged from the cabinet that his next steps were inevitable and in a matter of seconds Harry was disappearing into the silvery void of yet another memory. As the light faded to a contained glow within the pensieve, an empty vial fell carelessly to the floor. The words 'Potions class – first year – first day' becoming almost impossible to make out in the dark.

"There will be no foolish wand-waving or silly incantations in this class."

The dark, authoritative voice came out of the swirling void as the pull of conflicting colors and undulating motion settled into identifiable shapes. Each piece, each person, table, jar, wand, robe and band of dim, dust-ridden sunlight fell into place. The potion's classroom looked exactly as Harry knew it would, exactly as he remembered it all those years ago.

"As such, I don't expect many of you to appreciate the subtle science and exact art that is potion making. However, for those select few who possess the predisposition... I can teach you how to bewitch the mind and ensnare the senses. I can tell you how to bottle fame, brew glory, and even put a stopper in death. Then again, maybe some of you have come to Hogwarts in possession of abilities so formidable that you feel confident enough to not pay attention. Mr. Potter... our new celebrity."

Harry looked along the startled faces to find his own, younger self. Green eyes were wide behind round glasses, a hot, red flush settled high on pale cheeks. The boy's face look utterly frightened at the sound of his own name.

"Even back then you had the ability to make me blush," Harry whispered. Out of habit he turned his gaze to Snape, but of course, the Potion Master's next spoken words were directed not at Harry's adult self.

"Tell me, what would I get if I added powdered root of asphodel to an infusion of wormwood?"

"Draught of Living Death," Adult Harry replied aloud, well aware that it wouldn't be heard.

"You don't know? Well, let's try again. Where, Mr. Potter, would you look if I asked you to find me a bezoar?" Snape fired back. The young boy looked bewildered and a bit surprised as a young girl's hand shot up once more, barely missing his head in its frantic launch skyward.

"In the stomach of a goat, you nit," Harry replied again, his attention this time on the vestige of his younger self. "You should have studied, like Hermione over there, and maybe he wouldn't have despised you right off."

Of course it did no good. Nothing in the scene changed. The boy continued to sit there, unaware that in front of him stood the man his body would later ache for. Unaware that beside him was his future self, practically shouting the correct answers in his ear. Prat. Bloody, sodding prat of a boy! If only he'd have known the path his future would take and how that path intertwined with that of the Professor Severus Snape, maybe that boy would have made a far better first impression than that of a blank stare and blushing, childish cheeks. Harry knew that this was it, the pivotal moment. The moment that if he could travel back in time and change, he would without question. That memory, that minuet span of time, could have altered the relationship between him and Snape and maybe, possibly, would have altered the end result.

"You might not have died, if only we had built a bit of trust right here, right now."

Harry watched as the memory moved forward. Snape loomed over the boy's desk and instinctually, the Gryffindor countered with a stubborn jut of his chin. At least the boy had one redeeming quality. The tenacity to always stand up to Snape or anyone else was a trait Harry envied in young kid. Back then it was easy to believe in his own choices and actions and to confront whoever stood before him with a determined mind and committed heart. That unadulterated courage felt like something from another life, like something lost long ago. If only a spark of that boy's personality had lingered, Harry might look into the mirror and see a man he recognized, rather than a tortured shadow of someone that he used to know.

"You and I, we are so different now," he voiced. "And you, well you and I were always so different from one another. Maybe that's the point of it all." Harry turned to Snape then, reaching out in futile attempt to touch him, just once, for just a second, to absorb even an ounce of his essence.

And just as it began, the memory ended. The distinguishable shapes melted into one another, the colors draining and flowing together in a powerful whirlwind of magick. Harry fought the pull, struggled to stay just one moment more. His eyes held fast to the image of Snape's face until even that washed away in the void and still he reached out for the disappearing remnant of the man he knew all too well would not be waiting on the other side of the magical curtain.

"Bloody hell!" Harry cursed as the pensieve deposited him in a heap on the floor.

He knew what was coming. It happened every time he chose to visit one of the more personal memories in the collection of vials, especially if that memory was his own. It was the reason why he fought so hard to stay, the reason why his arms and legs felt like pudding from straining so hard to resist the incredible pull of the pensieve. He tried to prepare himself, but he knew it was useless and before he could even pick himself up off the floor, it happened.

Reality came crashing down upon Harry with so much force it knocked the breath from his chest: Snape was dead. That was the harsh reality and no dream, no fragile memory, could change it.

As his body trembled, Harry felt the yawning abyss opening just on the edge of his heart and mind. It pulled at him, urged him to break apart. It was then he felt the potion slipping in with a blanket of numbness, combating the empty hole of despair and for a moment he felt relief, though it was short-lived. His mind began to race, the thoughts tumultuous and rapid-fire: would he break this addiction, could he convince his heart to accept Snape's passing, did Snape ever feel a fraction of this for him during their time together, Merlin his chest hurt and his head pounded, how he craved another trip into the pensieve, he knew he should never fall into it again, he didn't belong there, he didn't belong anywhere, that boy from the memory was nothing at all like who he'd become, how could he ever teach any student when he couldn't even pick himself up and exist in the world without the help of a potion?

"The potion," Harry said in realization. It was the potion causing his thoughts to run out of control. The calming effect had worked on his emotions, and as his mind, working to make up for the lack of feeling, was stimulated beyond the point of control by the quick-witted portion of the draught. It was like mental caffeine times ten.

"Maybe if I take another dose," he told himself. It was supposed to be convincing but the words sounded as defeated as he felt.

Another dose wouldn't help. Not that it wouldn't work, no it would work all too well. It just wouldn't help. Like the tremors and eventual insomnia with the Pepper-Up Potion, the desired affect of the new draught would become the harmful downside: emotional death and mental mania. The Calming Quick-Wit Draught was just another band aid to cover the bullet hole.

"Master Harry Potter, Sir?"

A tiny, timid voice cut through the bleak murk of Harry's mind. Quickly, he scanned the room to find a small, gray house elf standing atop the left-most couch arm.

"My apologies, Master Harry Potter Sir, but Twinkle was sent by Master Bilious Weasley Sir. Twinkle was sent with goodies and a note from the red-headed professor."

"Twinkle, I have told you before, you can call me Harry. Just Harry, not 'sir' or 'master' but just Harry, all right?"

"Yes, Sir Just Harry, Twinkle understands," she said emphatically. Harry sighed. This was a losing battle and one he didn't feel up to fighting at that moment. "Please, Sir Just Harry, will you accept what Twinkle has been sent to deliver?"

"Yeah, a' course. Just leave it over there on the table, Twinkle."

With a flick of her wrist, Twinkle brought fourth a massive, silver platter littered with all sorts of food and snacks and as easily as it would be to float a feather she maneuvered the hovering plate to its resting place atop the table. No matter how many house elves he met, or how many times he watched them work their magick, Harry still found it all very amazing. Such a small creature with such immense power was truly incredible.

"Thanks, Twinkle," he murmured and genuinely meant it. If it hadn't been for her interruption, he would still be crumpled on the floor. But as it were, the intrigue of her magick and the assortment of smells coming from the gleaming tray was enough to cause a break in his furious, mental race.

"Truly, thank you."

The little elf erupted in a fit of giggles and cooing which only added to his amused speculation. Funny, but he had never noticed that house elves could blush, yet as a cloud of disapparation swallowed her small form Harry could make out a soft, pink hue atop her pointy cheeks.

_A bit of a snack. You will need your strength to handle the difficult task ahead… oh and the boggart as well. _

"Oh how funny you are, Bill Weasley," Harry mused. Crumpling the note in his hand, he tossed it aside in order to inspect the spread before him.

On the left side of the plate sat row after row of little, tiny sandwiches, some made with jams and jellies and others with assorted meats and cheeses. On the right side, Harry found piles of sweets including Treacle fudge, pumpkin brew biscuits, and his personal favorites, Chocolate Frogs. Leave it to Twinkle to remember how much he enjoyed the last batch. She really was a special house elf, and honestly, the only one willing to come down as far into the dungeons as it took to reach his chambers.

'The increased appetite, that I will greatly miss,' he thought as he worked his way through the sweets. Knowing full well that taking another dose of the powerful draught would be a terrible idea, Harry told himself to enjoy the hunger and pleasure of food for as long as this dose lasted. He figured he had two days, tops, before the brew wore off completely. 'It's a shame really, seeing as how Twinkle really is the best cook among the lot.'

As he continued to eat, Harry revisited the idea of a better solution. Potions, as it were, seemed to have too many side-effects and if the point was the mask the ache in his chest and put a smile on his face for all to see then miserable side-effects were something Harry couldn't have. He needed to find something effective yet safe, subtle yet strong. With a biscuit in hand and half a frog trapped between his lips, Harry perused the storage shelves along the back of room.

"Ash, belladonna, aconite," he read aloud, carefully reviewing each vial, each jar, in the hopes that something would catch his eye. "Flitterbloom, fluxweed… no and no. Gillyweed, well obviously if I need to swim a bit that would be top notch but no."

"For Merlin's sake, Potter, for once I thought you might choose to look at this intellectually but, of course, I was mistaken. Instead of using what little mental prowess you still possess, you are hoping the answer will jump forth and present itself. The chances of that occurring are slim, Potter. Very slim."

"Bollocks, not again," Harry sighed, cursing the fractured mind that propagated such realistic fantasies. Trying to focus on the task at hand, lest the crushing reality hit once again, Harry played along and replied, "My mental prowess is quite incredible, actually. I managed to brew your draught, after all."

"Only with my assistance."

"Oh bugger all you would have to bring that up. Look couldn't you just give me a hint?"

The room fell silent.

Harry expected a snarky remark or at least an insult or two but nothing came. As he turned to look round the room for some sign, some source of the disembodied voice, he nearly missed the two glass jars that toppled off the top shelf. All those years as seeker paid off as the jars were safely caught by his nimble hands mere inches from the floor.

"Must've bumped the shelf looking round the room for a dead man and boy does that sound much less sane when spoken aloud," Harry muttered.

"Ginger root and lascivious lavender… ruddy good thing that one didn't hit the floor. Wouldn't want to tangle with that bloody plant again, not after last time."

Turning the jars over in his hand, Harry mused on the pair. Ginger always reminded him of his Aunt Petunia who would brew ginger tea every winter for her 'Dudders'. He hated it, of course, but with that shrill voice of hers cooing in his ear about how stimulating it was for his precious brain he never found the strength to refuse.

"A tea… why didn't I think of that earlier?!" He shouted as the proverbial light bulb went off in his head. If he took the calming aspect of the Calming Quick-Wit Draught and mixed it with a natural stimulate, like ginger, he could brew a safe, natural remedy that would not only help him control his emotions but also allow him that extra boost of energy for the days when his façade started to slip.

In no time at all, Harry was snuggled on the couch with a fresh cup of Potter Smooth-Pep tea. Yeah, the named needed work, but for the first time he had been able to record a concoction of his own creation into the journal instead of one he copied from Snape. It wasn't much, but it was a start.

"I might become a proper wizard yet," he sighed, stifling a yawn.

Heaviness came over him then, his muscles giving into the aged comfort of the couch. His bones fell with a sagging exhaustion and as he stifled yet another yawn, he found his eye lids slowly dropping. After seeing Ginny that morning, then the strange and highly erotic dream in the prefect's bathroom and the emotional trip into the pensieve, Harry wasn't surprised that his body had finally surrendered.

With a quick glance at the clock, he gave in and slipped quietly into a soft slumber.

"_Just how long do you plan to keep your eyes closed, Potter?"_

_The voice was barely a hiss and came on top of the sound emitted by the crackling fireplace. Harry opened his eyes to see the flames that licked up the sides of the hearth, the tiny sparks that jumped from the logs to land in sizzling patches along the stone floor. _

"_Isn't it normal to keep your eyes closed when sleeping?"_

"_You, Harry Potter, are terribly abnormal." _

_A black form emerged from the shadows, taking shape as it moved into the light. Long, dark robes billowed around legs fitted in black trousers. The robes cut close to a black vest adorned in silver fastenings. A high collar led into the pale skin of a long neck and all-to-familiar face. Snape's lurid eyes were staring straight into his and Harry felt his breath catch._

"_Why… why are you here?" Harry asked as he pulled his gaze away for fear they may reveal his secrets. "I haven't dreamed for months and now… it is every time I close my eyes."_

_Harry heard the rustling of fabric, the soft tap of steady footfall. _

"_Your knack for inane inquiries is both superfluous and unnecessary," Snape answered his voice a low, dusky caress along Harry's skin. The foot steps stopped just behind where he sat on the couch. He jumped in shock as firm hands snaked across his shoulders, down onto his chest. _

"_Is this not what you wanted inside the pensieve, to touch, to be touched?"_

_Those hands continued their exploration, turning course to travel up his collar bone, settling then on his neck. The hold wasn't forceful, but strong, the pressure causing his pulse to spike. With calculated effort, those hands pulled Harry's head back, resting it on the back edge of the couch. _

"_Look at me."_

_The words stopped his heart and his eyes flew open in response. Without warning, a small tear slid down his cheek as he looked deep into Snape's dark gaze. "I know, I have my mother's…"_

"_No, I asked after your attention for far more enjoyable purposes than discussing your mother," Snape answered._

_He leaned down then and closed what little space remained between their lips. His mouth was cold, as if he'd been chewing peppermints, the chill startling and erotic at the same time. The cold was even more thrilling as his tongue boldly pushed past Harry's lips, stroking against his own. _

"_Come with me." _

_The command made Harry quiver with anticipation. He watched eagerly as Snape crossed back to the front of the couch, settling himself in front of the fire. Working the silver clasps with nimble fingers, Snape's vest gave way to drape open down to his waist. Those fingers moved to slide across pale skin, tracing circles along the slender ridges of muscle. Harry became transfixed, unable to pull his eyes away from the lean figure reclining on the floor, bathed in fire light. _

"_Do not make me repeat myself, Potter," Snape hissed. _

_It took great effort to move from the couch, to force his body to join with object of his secret desires, but Harry finally managed the courage. Squeaky tennis shoes brought him to the mantel; trembling knees lowered him down to the floor. _

_As soon as Harry was within reach, Snape's hands were on him: weaving through his hair, caressing his arms, raking across his lower back, moving down his torso to slither up and underneath his faded tee shirt, gliding across his pert nipples, covering his mouth when he yelled out in surprising pleasure._

_"Quiet, Potter. Lest anyone realize just exactly who you are entertaining in your private chambers." Flashing a rare grin filled with wicked promise, Snape moved his hands low, and lower still until the disappeared beneath the waist band of Harry's pants. _

"_Do. Not. Make. A Sound." _

_The challenge in his tone made Harry's heart race, the blooding pumping so hard and fast that his ears rang with the repetitive, rapid beats. Merlin, Snape's hands felt even better than they had in the prefect's bathroom, knowing exactly how to maneuver so that in minutes Harry was panting from the excruciating, decadent struggle between holding out and letting go. _

_Reaching out, Harry tried to pull Severus close, but he just shook his head and with his free hand pinned Harry's behind his head. _

_"Let me touch you… I wa… want to feel you," he begged on shuddered breath. _

_"I implicitly asked that make no sound, did I not?" Harry nodded. "Knowing your habitual disregard of the rules, I should have done this much earlier to ensure your silence." _

_Using the strength of his body, Snape pushed Harry back onto the floor, their mouths crashing together in a flurry of lips, teeth and tongue. The feeling of the older man's slender frame on top of his, the cold-tinged pull of his mouth on his and the deep strokes of his hand were enough to send Harry toppling over the edge. He screamed out, Snape's mouth consuming the sound. _

_"Harry." _

_"You never call me Harry," he mumbled, his tongue and lips still red and swollen._

_"Harry? Harry, are you there?" Snape's voice sounded different, not at all dark and devious like the Snape from his childhood, nor deep and thoughtful as the Snape from older memories. "Harry?"_

A loud, persistent knocking permeated Harry's sleeping mind; the sound far too annoying to ignore.

"What's'it all'bout?" Harry groaned. The knocking stopped, thank Merlin, but the voice returned.

"I've been knocking for five minutes, Harry. Will you please open the door?" As the fog of sleep faded, the person behind the voice finally came to mind.

"Bill?"

"Yes, Bill Weasley, the Professor of Defense Against the Dark Arts at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Now that the formal introduction is over, won't you come to the door?"

'Bloody hell!' Harry thought as he shot up, wide eyes searching the wall above the fireplace. 8 o'clock… bloody flogging hell. He had slept right through Bill's class and of course the overly-concerned eldest Weasley had come a' knocking. "Coming Bill, hold on."

Quickly righting himself, running his hands through his most assuredly messy mop of hair, Harry raced to the door and dispelled the wards and charms. With a tug, he pulled the door open just enough to see his clearly perturbed visitor, but not enough that said visitor thought an invitation to step inside was being delivered.

"You missed my class, young man." Bill stated simply, his eyes flat and serious. "What do you have to say for yourself?"

"Um… sandwiches."

"Sandwiches, Harry?"

"Yeah, the sandwiches… the ones you had Twinkle deliver. I ate the entire lot of them and fell right to sleep on the couch." Harry watched for Bill's reaction. The excuse wasn't exactly a lie, seeing as how he did eat quite a bit of food and then yes, he did fall asleep on the couch. It was almost the truth, except for the omission of the dream and exactly _why _he'd overslept. "Really, if you think about it… it's your fault."

The smile that broke out across Bill's face was not what Harry had been expecting. One second he was stern and convincingly peeved and just like that, he was laughing with that trademark joy sparkling in his eyes.

"You are so much like my little brothers, Harry, it's uncanny," he mused, clapping him on the shoulder. "Just make it up to me, all right? My next boggart session is two days from now, same class, same time."

"Got it, I'll be there. So long as you don't send me any more ruddy sandwiches."

"Too right," he chuckled. With a final pat and ruffle of Harry's hair, he took off down the dingy tunnel. In moment's, the light from his wand disappeared into the darkness.

"Dragon fire, that was close! I thought for sure he'd have my head for missing that class," Harry exclaimed as he threw himself back down onto the couch. A chill ran up his back, the cold air of the room finally hitting him. "Suppose that will teach me to light a fire before snoozing away the hours."

He snatched his wand from a nearby table and just as he leveled it at the fireplace, a strange sight caught his attention. Faint wisps of smoke wafted along the chilled air, climbing from the quiet logs. Crossing the room, Harry knelt down and ran his hands along the marble hearth, expecting some sort of residual heat but instead, he was met with icy cold.

"Well what did you expect, yah'prat? You didn't light one, and unless roaring fires inside a dream count, it's been out all day."

With a flick of his wrist, Harry ignited the logs. He saw Snape then, lying out in the flickering light, his vest open, his skin exposed. The mental image made his mouth go dry. As the rest of the dream played out in his mind, Harry found it a bit hard to catch his breath.

"The taste of Twinkle's food won't be the only thing I'll miss when that draught is gone," he mused, stoking the fire. Though the dreams spurred by Snape's potion were unnerving, to say the least, Harry certainly would miss how real they felt, much as his nightmares had in the past, yet far more pleasantly so. He stared for a while into the flames as the room fell into comfortable silence.

Dark, shifting shadows played out along the walls behind him, seemingly alive in their fluid movement, yet Harry continued to look deep into the flames none the wiser.


End file.
